


From Here to Eternity

by stillscape



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: edit:At some point I may come back to this, but for now, I'm changing this to a one-shot.A multi-chapter fic starting at the end of S1, or, where do we go from here? (Despite the title, we are not going all the way to eternity.)Chapter 1 is straight-up Bughead (and the aftermath of that jacket), but the rest of the gang will show up soon enough, and I'll add them into the character tags when appropriate. In future chapters, you can expect both canon and non-canon ships, and a variety of friendship times.





	From Here to Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to Ashley and diaphenia, who are encouraging (and inspiring) very different aspects of this story. 
> 
> A note on potentially mature content: I'm aiming for about what would be appropriate to show on the CW.

The door swung shut behind Jughead, an erratic, irregular, hesitant swing that mirrored Betty’s own breathing. 

She knew he had once described her as a Hitchcock blonde, a phrase she’d found a little insulting when she’d first heard it.

// 

“It’s a compliment. I swear, Betty, it’s a compliment.”

“Don’t the women always get murdered?” 

“Murdered? Always? No. How many Hitchcock movies have you seen, anyway?” 

“Just _Psycho_.” 

He grinned at her. “That’s the exception. Janet Leigh isn’t the blonde, Betty. Grace Kelly is the blonde.” 

The grin unsettled her, but not in a bad way. It felt, almost, like flirtation. Almost. 

“And what’s Grace Kelly, then?”

“You don’t know who Grace Kelly—”

“Of course I know who she is. I don’t know what she is, in the context of a Hitchcock movie.” 

“Cool under pressure and always impeccable.”

// 

Never had Betty felt less like Grace Kelly, even though this was definitely a Hitchcock movie moment; it was the horrible moment after the curtain was pulled back. A cold trickle of fear still ran down her spine; air wouldn’t go all the way into her lungs. Still, she stood tall. She would always stand tall. Even if her skirt was twisted and she was wearing her coat inside because her shirt was nowhere to be seen.

Her face must not have been as composed as she thought it was, because as soon as Jughead turned his eyes to her, he blanched. The jacket was off in an instant, thrown against the wall, where it made an ominous, awful _thump_ and crumpled to the floor. 

“Betty.” 

“How could you?” 

“Betty, I have to.” 

He didn’t; she was sure of it. 

“It’s not something I can explain.” 

“I need you to try.” 

They stood in silence for several moments, until Jughead hunched his shoulders and turned his hands over in helplessness. 

His hands. Betty focused on his hands. His hands could do amazing things. She felt their ghosts on her waist, on the sides of her neck; she tried not to blush; she made herself focus instead on his fingers, and the effortless way that words flowed out of them. 

She swallowed. “Think about how you would write it.” 

“How I’d write it?” 

Betty nodded. “You could explain it then, couldn’t you? This decision?” 

“Maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Probably.” 

“Okay. So do it. Then explain it to me.” 

“Betty…” 

“Because this—” Her eyes darted to the Serpents jacket, still untouched— “Joining the Serpents seems like a really bad idea.” 

She kept her eyes on his face, on his eyes, as though doing so would allow her to read his thoughts. Her peripheral vision registered a slight involuntary twitch in his fingertips, and _she_ twitched, remembering where his fingers had been only minutes ago. Had it really been only minutes? It felt like hours, already—like they were moving in either very slow motion or very fast motion, she couldn’t decide which. 

Jughead crossed to the old couch and collapsed on it. Betty remained standing. She knew, instinctively, that keeping a physical distance between them was important right now. 

But then he locked eyes with her and nodded towards the empty cushion, and she felt herself drawn there. As she sat, Jughead slipped his hand around hers, like he’d done so many times before; the move was so natural, now, that she didn’t consciously register it until she tried to clench her nails into her palms. Her left hand succeeded, but Jughead gently pressed her right hand flat, simultaneously rubbing his thumb across her heart line. She didn’t know—couldn’t tell—if Jughead even knew that’s what he was doing, if he was aware he was keeping her from harm. 

She quickly sat on her left hand, pressing it under her thigh. 

“It’s about belonging.” 

“Belonging,” she echoed.

“We all want to belong to something bigger than ourselves.” 

Betty knew, now, that the best thing was to keep silent while he worked out his reasoning. It was incredibly, incredibly hard; in fact, she had to literally bite the tip of her tongue to stop words from coming out. It didn’t work—although she did at least keep herself from reminding him that he’d flat-out told her he didn’t want to fit in, which to her sounded exactly like belonging to something bigger than himself, and why would he be changing his mind over _this_?. 

“Jughead, you belong in Riverdale. We’ve had this conversation a million times.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “More like three.” 

“Okay, fine.” It was a relief, the slight sardonic note that had crept back into his voice, and she felt her own throat relax a tiny bit. “Three. Isn’t three enough?” 

“No.” The word came out as a sigh. “Yes. I don’t know, Betty.” 

This time, she let Jughead collected his thoughts without interruption. It took him a few moments. 

Finally, he spoke. 

“Maybe it’s more about expectations. We all want to belong to something bigger than ourselves, but with belonging comes expectations. Expectations we have about ourselves; expectations other people have about us.” 

Betty nodded, and realized that absent of the ability to clench her fists, she’d sucked her lower lip between her front teeth: a sharp pressure, not quite pain. It helped. She hated that it helped. 

“And I don’t know which expectations to follow,” he continued. “Part of me always expected my dad’s whole… _thing_ would try to suck me in. I just didn’t expect it to happen this soon. I thought I’d at least have until the end of high school before I would have to make a choice, and then I thought—I thought—”

“You’d have a way out of Riverdale.” 

“Which I see now was stupid,” he said. “Even with a scholarship, I couldn’t afford college.” 

“Wait, but you have to go. You’re too smart not to.” 

Jughead chuckled. “And see, Betty, those are your expectations. The ones you’ve had heaped upon you since the day you were born. Luckily for you, they overlap with the ones with you’d have for yourself anyway.” 

Under her thigh, Betty’s hand twitched in frustration. _They had had this conversation._

“There are plenty of expectations,” she said, trying to keep her tone measured, “that people have put on me, that I’ve tried to—I don’t know. To defy.” 

“I know.” His eyes were locked on hers now, his gaze sincere, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Her pulse quickened. “It’s one of your best qualities.” 

“Jughead, the Serpents scare me. I know they don’t deal hard drugs. I know they didn’t murder Jason. But they’re still a gang. They held him for ransom. That’s not okay.” 

“I know that too.” 

They both fell silent then, though Jughead continued to stroke her palm. 

“I didn’t expect that if they ever handed me a jacket, I’d have any reason to accept it,” he said, eventually. “But I do. Things are not normal right now, Betty. The Serpents aren’t a good normal, but at least they’re a normal that I understand. Until my dad gets out… _if_ my dad gets out...” 

Betty took a deep breath, and forced out a question she only half wanted to know the answer to. 

“What do you think they’ll expect you to do?” 

“That, I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s a symbolic jacket.” 

That seemed unlikely, but she nodded, slowly. “There’s a lot we don’t know right now.” 

Now it was Jughead’s turn to draw a deep breath. 

“I know that earlier tonight, you told me that you love me,” he said. “I didn’t expect _that_.”

Confused as she was right now, Betty’s heart still skipped several beats. 

“Didn’t you?” 

Jughead shook his head, so slightly it was almost imperceptible. “I hoped.” 

Whatever tension was left hanging between them shattered now. Betty wasn’t sure which of them smashed through first, or if it had broken of its own accord. Shards of tension were probably accumulating around that damned leather jacket in the corner, but the space immediately surrounding them was clear, and Betty let her darker thoughts slip away as the boy she loved pulled her close.

// 

“Dish,” Veronica ordered.

They had just entered her room, ostensibly to do homework. In reality, Betty had just needed an escape from the house. Her homework had been complete for hours. She had thrown herself onto Veronica’s bed, landing on her back amongst an absurd number of satin-covered throw pillows, and closed her eyes. Now she opened them to find Veronica sitting next to her on the bed, dark eyes bright, flawlessly groomed eyebrows perked and curious. 

(Were her friend’s eyebrows even groomed? Or were they just naturally like that?) 

“About what?” 

“You and Juggie.” 

Betty quickly pushed herself up to her elbows. 

“Me and Juggie what?” Was she blushing? She couldn’t tell, not until Veronica’s eyes widened in delight. 

“Betty Cooper,” she drawled, placing a hand on Betty’s knee. “Tell me _everything_. ‘Moody introvert’ is a flavor I haven’t had the pleasure of sampling. What’s it like, under the lid?” 

Now Betty’s cheeks flushed hotter, hot enough for her skin to feel tight. 

“Veronica!” 

Veronica, to her credit, dropped the coy act at once. “Betts, it’s completely fine if you haven’t.” 

“I know that.” They had only been together a month. Well, thirty-two days, if she was being precise. Sometimes, it felt like an eternity; others, an instant. 

“Have you ever?” 

She shook her head. “No.” 

“Has Jughead ever?” 

She shook her head again—although she wasn’t one hundred percent sure. Ninety percent, maybe. 

“Have you two talked about it?” 

“Not really,” Betty admitted. “We’re both…” 

She wasn’t sure what they were, honestly. What she was. More and more, she had been feeling certain...urges around Jughead, urges that terrified her because she could, in those moments, imagine how easy it would be to lose control. How easy it would be to end up in Polly’s situation. 

“The cutest,” Veronica said, firmly. “Saving yourselves for just the right moment? That’s adorbs. I ship it.” 

With that, she popped off the bed and stuck her hand inside the drawer of her bedside table. She pulled out something small, which she handed to Betty as she rearranged herself cross-legged on the bed. Betty, for her part, knew exactly what she’d been given. The appropriate response didn’t quite come to mind. 

“Don’t tell me they don’t teach sex ed here.” 

“No, they do,” said Betty. 

“Although if they didn’t, it might explain a few things. Anyway, take those. Use them well, when you’re ready.” 

_How many times have you…_ lingered on the tip of Betty’s tongue, but she swallowed the thought, and carefully tucked the condoms in the secret zipper compartment of her purse instead.

“And don’t worry if the first time isn’t what you expect,” Veronica continued. “It never is. Take your time. Figure out what you both like.” 

Betty nodded. “Thanks, Ronnie.” She forced herself to smile, and Veronica beamed in response.

“My pleasure.” 

On the last word, she raised her eyebrows. Betty hit her with a throw pillow.

// 

“My purse,” she gasped now, as he pulled at the belt of her trench coat. She knew it wasn’t time yet, but better that they both knew.

Jughead made a muffled noise in response—all he could really do, since he was kissing this amazing spot he’d found at the nape of her neck, a spot Betty hadn’t even known she possessed. 

“In my purse. I have…” 

“My wallet’s closer.” 

The words vibrated against that magic spot, and suddenly it wasn’t enough, the few square inches of contact they shared. She sat up, tearing off her coat as she did, while Jughead slid out of his own shirt. Now they were back to where they had been, _before_ , a fact Betty barely registered in her haste to press her skin to his. It did not occur to her to wonder how long Jughead had been keeping condoms in his wallet. 

Jughead stopped, though, and shook his head, giving the couch a disdainful side-eye. 

“Not here,” he said, getting to his feet. Betty followed suit. 

“Where?” 

“My room.”

// 

Without having to look, Betty easily found the lock and twisted it. The telltale click was something she heard without really registering. She was too focused on Jughead, Jughead and the butterflies she felt as he ensured that her bedroom curtains were completely, utterly closed. Task accomplished, he perched on the edge of her bed, looking simultaneously wildly out of place and completely at home, in the way he so often managed to do.

“If your mom does come home,” he said, “is that lock going to stop her?”

Betty let a smile spread over her lips. It felt good there. _She_ felt good. 

“Usually, I’d say no. But today…” She slid her hand into the front pocket of her jeans, and pulled out a tiny key. 

“Why, Ms. Cooper.”

“Mr. Jones.” 

“How notorious of you.” Her brow must have done its usual quizzical thing, because Jughead quickly clarified. “Not notorious, _Notorious_. 1946. Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman...have I still not caught you up on Hitchcock?” 

Betty shook her head as she sat down next to him. “We’ve been busy, Jug.” 

“That we have,” he agreed, sliding a hand into the hair behind her ear. “That we have.” 

As they began kissing, it occurred to Betty that he’d given her a pretty good segue into talking about another kind of being busy. She sat up straight, lacing her fingers into his. 

“Can we talk about...” She whispered the last word into his ear.

Much to her surprise, Jughead’s whole body stiffened. 

“Okay,” he said, nodding. His fingers rubbed the back of her hand, which seemed to relax him a little bit. 

Betty put on her best responsible voice. “Well, we should. Talk about it, I mean. Because…well, not just because, but.” She swallowed. “I’m still a virgin.” 

He shrugged, ever so slightly. “What, you think I’m not?” 

“You could have had exploits I’m not privy to.” 

Now Jughead snorted—his amused snort, not his derisive one. “ _Exploits_?” 

Betty threw up her free hand. “I don’t know! Anything’s possible. If there’s one thing I’ve learned this year, it’s how much I _don’t_ know about what goes on behind closed doors.” 

“Fair enough. I am, though. Also. Pure as the driven snow.” 

It was at this point Betty—and, apparently, Jughead too—realized that her free hand had crept inside Jughead’s flannel, just to the waistband of his pants, with her knuckles grazing his undershirt. They both stared at the hand for a moment before Betty retracted it. 

“That doesn’t mean I assumed we were staying that way,” he said. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready yet.” The words came out in a rush, spilling over each other. “Not for everything. For _more_ things, yes. But not—not everything. Yet. Is that okay?” 

“Of course it’s okay,” said Jughead. He sounded amazed, and sincere, all at once. “Betts, anything—either way—just tell me.” 

She nodded, and felt her playful smile return.

“Jughead Jones.”

Jughead kissed her before she could get any more words out.

// 

They swept from the living room and down a short hall, breathless between kisses.

“I wanted this to be different,” Jughead murmured. Not in his dad’s trailer and not with that interruption, she knew he meant, and also that _this_ was a foregone conclusion. 

Betty’s voice came out somewhere between a gasp and a whisper; she wasn’t really sure which. “It’s good.” 

Jughead shook his head slightly. He seemed to be trying to say something else, but stopping himself before any words came out. She knew _that_ meant words weren’t necessary now, that words would only get in the way. 

They paused only because the bedroom door was closed. Betty knew it to have a sticky jamb, but tonight it flew open at Jughead’s touch. He stepped through, pulling Betty with him. The air here was cool and still, like it didn’t get used much. The room had no overhead light; Jughead switched on a floor lamp one-handed, never taking his eyes from her.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. 

“What?” 

“Your back. I couldn’t see it before.” He spun her around so he could see her back more clearly, traced a horizontal line between her shoulder blades. 

Betty reached there herself, but couldn’t feel much of anything. She shrugged and turned back around to kiss him again.

“There’s a bruise.” 

“A bruise?” 

Jughead nodded, a slight look of anguish crossing his face. “From the cabinet. God, Betts, if I hurt you—” 

“No.” If she had been hurt at the time, she would have yelled _ow_ and told him to stop, which she was sure he knew, deep down. Betty pressed herself to him, willed his chest to hers, took his biceps in her hands. “Jug, I _liked_ it.”

That was all Jughead needed. 

The bed was a softer landing than the kitchen counter had been. 

Betty still liked it.

Later that night, when she was tucked in Jughead’s bed between clean flannel sheets, she closed her eyes let her mind drift through possibilities, alternate paths the night hadn’t led them down. What would have happened if no one had knocked on the door? Would they have continued right there in the kitchen? Mostly, she wondered how much convincing it would take to make her mother believe she’d spent the night at Veronica’s.

“Found these at the back of a drawer,” said Jughead’s voice. She opened her eyes to see him leaning against the doorframe, holding up a couple of brand-new toothbrushes. 

“Oh, thank goodness.” Fatigued as Betty was, she knew there was no way she’d sleep well without brushing her teeth first. 

“Blue or red?” 

“Blue.” 

She examined herself critically in the mirror as she brushed: face scrubbed clean, hair damp, an old t-shirt of Jughead’s slack against her chest. Did she look different? She didn’t feel any different, except for a little soreness here and there. Was she _supposed_ to feel different? 

A drip of water fell from the shower head and splashed, just loudly enough to get her attention. Her eyes flicked to the mildewed curtain, then back to her own face. Her cheeks, she noticed, were now tinged pink.

// 

After their renewed fury had burnt itself out, Jughead was the one who’d become surprisingly shy, for all that he’d been fully coordinated and confident just moments before. Though she hadn’t achieved orgasm, Betty thought she’d never felt better in her life. She would have been content to lay right there as she was for all eternity, but Jughead—who’d had to get out of bed to clean up—threw something heavy and soft on her chest. She opened her eyes to find him standing over her apparently trying not to look at her _too_ much. This struck her as both endearing and ridiculous.

“This evening probably calls for some symbolic cleansing,” he said. 

It was a towel, the thing he’d dropped on her. 

“And literal cleansing, if you want. You can go first.” 

Betty thought for a moment. Then she stood up and took his hand. 

“Come with me?” 

He obediently followed.

// 

That was the part she mentally reviewed now: the way Jughead had somehow been hesitant to take his boxers back off, even though she’d obviously just seen everything; the slow, deliberate path of his soapy fingers across her back, hesitating slightly over that bruise; the way he’d first stiffened, then relaxed into her own soapy hands across his torso.

The unfortunately unpleasant realization that you couldn’t kiss very well under running water, not if kissing meant you needed to breathe through your nose. 

“Your hair’s going to be a mess in the morning,” she told her reflection. Sleeping on a wet head was no good at all, but—unsurprisingly—neither Jughead nor his father kept a hair dryer around. 

She stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water and registered, subconsciously, that something looked different. 

The jacket. While she’d been brushing her teeth, Jughead had draped the Serpents jacket over the back of a chair. (Her own coat lay draped across a different chair, but that seemed beside the point now.) 

But she wouldn’t let her heart sink. Not now. Not until the morning. She could push those feelings down until then. 

Jughead was tucked into bed when she got back there, and she squeezed in next to him after she’d turned off the floor lamp. It was a twin-sized bed. Good thing she wanted to be especially close to him tonight. She wriggled herself into the little spoon position, pulling his arm snug around her waist. He kissed that magic spot on the side of her neck.

“I love you, Betty Cooper.” 

“Jughead Jones, I love you,” she replied.

A little moonlight—or maybe it was street lamp—trickled through the curtains, just enough to illuminate something on the bedside table. 

Jughead’s beanie. 

Betty almost reached out to touch it, but stopped herself, and closed her eyes instead. 

They awoke the next morning to the simultaneous, frantic buzzing of both their cell phones.

// 

(tbc) 


End file.
